Chapter 1 - The Four-Minute WarThe wind in the alley howled like a starving animal, whipping Tilda’s hair across her face. She kept her palm pressed against Lev’s shivering shoulder, using her own body heat to shield him from the freezing draft.
Four minutes.
That was all Damon Vale had promised. In a city where emergency services could take half an hour to navigate a winter storm, a Chicago crime boss operated on a completely different timeline.
At exactly three minutes and forty seconds, the temperature in the alley seemed to drop further, suffocated by an abrupt, absolute silence. The ambient hum of traffic from Huron Street vanished. The wind suddenly died down, blocked by a wall of oversized vehicles.
Three matte-black SUVs slid into the alley entrance, their high beams cutting through the falling snow like twin blades. They didn’t park; they occupied the space, completely sealing off the exits.
Car doors opened in unison.
Heavy boots crunched against the slush. Half a dozen men stepped out. They wore tailored wool overcoats that didn’t flutter in the wind, their posture rigid, their hands hovering dangerously close to their waistbands. But Tilda didn’t look at them.
She looked at the man walking in the center.
Damon Vale was not wearing a winter coat. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit that looked expensive enough to pay off Tilda’s rent for the next five years. He was tall, with sharp, aristocratic features etched in permanent frost, and silver-streaked dark hair combed straight back. His eyes were the color of stagnant river water—cold, unreadable, and terrifyingly sharp.
He didn't run. Men like Damon Vale didn't run. They simply arrived, and reality bent around them.
"Papa," Lev murmured, trying to sit up.
Damon dropped to his knees in the gray slush, completely unconcerned about ruining his thousand-dollar trousers. He gripped Lev’s face with large, trembling hands. It was the only crack in his armor—the microscopic tremor in his fingers as he checked his son's pulse, his temples, his breath.
"Lev," Damon breathed. It was the sound of a glacier cracking. "Who did this?"
"I don't know, Papa. Three men. They wanted the watch."
Damon’s gaze shifted from his son to Tilda. The air between them froze solid.
"You're Tilda Baron," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she said, keeping her chin up despite her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "The ambulance is on its way, but honestly, your men will probably get him to a private clinic faster. He has a concussion and bruised ribs."
Damon didn't blink. He stood up slowly, towering over her, casting a massive shadow across the snow.
"My men are already handling the transport," Damon said softly. He turned to his head of security, a hulking man with a broken nose named Viktor. "Get him into the lead car. Call Dr. Sterling. Tell him if he isn't at the compound by the time we arrive, I’ll throw him off the balcony."
"Right away, boss," Viktor muttered, gently lifting the boy. Lev gave Tilda one last look of gratitude before being carried away.
As the doors slammed shut, Tilda exhaled a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding. She reached down for her tote bag, grabbed her twenty-three dollars in tips, and turned toward the mouth of the alley.
"Going somewhere, Ms. Baron?" Damon’s voice cut through the snow.
Tilda stopped. She turned back to face him. "My shift ended an hour ago. The last bus is leaving, and unlike you, I don't have a fleet of tanks to drive me home."
Damon took two steps toward her. The silence in the alley felt heavy, pregnant with a danger that made her skin prickle.
"You told me my son needed me, not revenge," Damon said, his eyes narrowing. "In my world, Ms. Baron, people who give me advice usually end up floating in Lake Michigan. Why shouldn't you?"
Tilda looked right back into those frozen eyes, her exhaustion suddenly replaced by a fierce, reckless defiance.
"Because if you chose revenge tonight, Chicago would burn, innocent people would die in a turf war, and Lev would wake up in a hospital bed realizing his father cared more about body counts than his own flesh and blood," she said evenly. "And besides... I’m the only witness who knows what those men looked like."
May you like
A slow, terrifying smile touched the corner of Damon Vale’s mouth.
"Get in the car, Tilda," he said. "We’re going to have a conversation."
